


turn me on, turn me down

by feelingsmall79



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Come Eating, Come play, Exhibitionism, I'm def over tagging this but it's been so long i just wanna make sure, M/M, Name-Calling, OMC - Freeform, Oh, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Public Humiliation, Public Masturbation, Richie Tozier is desperate, Semi-Public Sex, Shame kink, Situational Humiliation, Smut, Sorry this is a mess lol, Top Eddie Kaspbrak, Unnegotiated Kink, Verbal Humiliation, Waiter Eddie Kaspbrak, also richie's head never shuts the fuck up, also they really uhhh, just jump right into it, no beta we die like men, oh uh, they don't know each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:35:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27538453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feelingsmall79/pseuds/feelingsmall79
Summary: Richie goes on a Tinder date. Eddie is their waiter and he won’t stop being mean to Richie. It’s a problem. Richie gets off in the bathroom. Eddie, uh, helps?
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 24
Kudos: 261





	turn me on, turn me down

**Author's Note:**

> canon says eddie is 5'9" but my heart says that's not even really short, so i made things right.
> 
> title is from "Savior Complex" by Phoebe Bridgers, which is a decidedly unsexy song, but this line was always erotic to me lmfao we won’t be touching those issues with a ten-foot stick!! Anyway no one actually gets turned down in this but it’s the negging, friends, the negging
> 
> finally, true to all reddie fanfiction, they have dirty mouths and the word fuck is in this approximately 130 times. what can i say, i identify with this.

Richie’s on A Tinder Date™, and it’s going fucking awful.

It would already be bad enough given the person sitting across from him — he’s got a douchey V-neck under a douchier ~distressed~ jean jacket and a fucking man bun, of all things, jesus christ, that should be something you have to disclose in your profile, “will occasionally wear a man bun” — whose name is fucking Chad, _of all fucking things_. Richie should have never swiped right (but desperate times, you know).

So yeah, that part would have been bad enough.

But they’re at a poorly lit hipster bar that serves drinks in fucking mason jars, one of those bars that has literal waiters (what the fuck is the point of the bar, then?), and the even larger problem Richie is having is that their fucking waiter is hot as fuck, and he’s negging the shit out of Richie.

Richie has some sort of type (it’s not really the dude he’s on a date with, but again, desperate times), and he thinks maybe the waiter was created specifically for him by bots that watched 100 hours of his wet dreams. He’s on the shorter side, 5’7” or 5’8” at most if Richie had to guess, and Richie’s never had, like, a thing about his height in relation to other human beings, but given the whole [waves vaguely] _everything_ of this man, he’s starting to wonder if it’s inappropriate to ask to compare sizes, like some fuckin’ girl flirting in 9th grade English class, only instead of comparing palms he just plasters his body to this guys entire self to see if he can fit that hair under his chin.

Because yeah, the guy’s got this hair — the kind of carelessly styled type that clearly was actually put together with great care, a single perfectly placed strand falling out of the light gel to his forehead, jesus christ — and he’s got arms and shoulders that make Richie consider things. His jawline is all squared angles and his brows are intense, and he’s just — god, Richie feels gross, like he’s a horny teenager writing fucking smut about the guy, but it’s the only word for it — he’s tight, his jaw is tight and he’s got a tight little body, and it moves like he’s on edge, like he’s controlling even the most minute movements with a tightly clenched fist, and if that isn’t the crux of it for Richie. Because he’d maybe like their waiter to control _him_ with a tightly clenched fist.

God.

So yeah, the date is not going well, because Chad sucks, he’s boring and self-involved and said “Fo sho,” but like, not ironically, and again, the man bun. And it’s also not going well because Richie can’t stop staring at their waiter ( _Eddie_ , his name is Eddie, he did the whole “Hi my name is Eddie and I’ll be serving you” earlier and Richie had wanted to say right there, “Hi Eddie, I’d really like to be serving _you_ ,” but you know, the date.), and the first time the dude rolls his eyes at him, Richie literally feels himself start to get hard. And he’s pretty sure that Chad can tell — maybe not that he’s literally sporting a semi under the table, but definitely that Richie is essentially gagging for their waiter’s dick, or at least gagging for their waiter to tell him to fuck off one more time.

Richie was caught off guard the first time Eddie said it, because, like, what happened to professionalism and “the customer is always right”? But also fuck capitalism and the dehumanization of people in the service industry and all that, so he’s in support of saying a big fuck you to respectability politics and letting waiters talk back.

His biggest problem with it is that Eddie saying “Fuck off” makes him want to fuck something, and it’s probably Eddie.

It happens an hour into the date. He and Chad are both three drinks in (he’s fairly sure they’re both trying to drink enough to either end the date early or lose enough inhibition to fuck each other even though they have the chemistry of a soggy sandwich) and they’ve had one of the only good moments of the evening in which they mutually decided to order something off the bar’s ridiculously overpriced and limited food menu.

And so Chad waves Eddie over, and wow, any warm and fuzzies over their joking discussion of the proper price of nachos are gone, because apparently Chad is the type of person who summons waiters by snapping his fingers in the air, which Richie didn’t think people actually did, and which he hates wildly.

He can tell Eddie hates it too, is watching his face as he registers Chad from across the bar and sees the flare of anger there (is turned on by it), sees the way Eddie grits his teeth (even more turned on), and is caught off guard as Eddie looks over Chad’s shoulders and directly into Richie’s eyes and arches one (dark, and heavy, and perfectly shaped) brow at him, as if to say, “Really? This guy?” And Richie is, surprise of surprises, turned on.

He can’t help smirking slightly, raising an eyebrow back, and, before he can think about it too hard, pushing his tongue into the hollow of his cheek as lewdly as possible, as Chad leans back in his chair and considers the menu, unaware.

Eddie’s other eyebrow jumps toward his hairline and his mouth sets in a straight, angry-looking line ( _turned on turned on turned on_ , it’s a refrain in the back of Richie’s head by now) and he shakes his head minutely as he walks toward their table, not breaking eye contact with Richie.

And Richie swears — he swears — that when Eddie reaches their table and says in an almost sarcastic voice “Can I _help_ you?” still looking Richie in the eye, that there’s a blush high on Eddie’s cheeks in the dim bar lighting.

Delicious.

“You can certainly help me with something, Eds,” he says, and really, at this point, fuck it, he’s not fucking sleeping with someone who snaps at waiters, no matter how desperate the times, so he turns his face slightly away from Chad and, still smirking and making direct eye contact with Eddie, pushes his tongue into his cheek again.

Eddie is definitely fucking blushing now, and Richie feels almost high off it. And then Eddie says, “Fuck off.” in that tight voice, and his jaw flexes, and _oh_. That fucking does something for him, and he feels barely lucid as Eddie finishes off a second later with, “My fucking name is Eddie.”

Richie is almost speechless for a second ( _almost_. He’s still Richie fucking Tozier.), and he knows it’s not his better material when he says, almost weakly, cupping his ear and leaning forward, “Sorry, did you say your name was Spaghetti?”

He can vaguely feel Chad watching them from the other side of the table, and he knows it’s bad etiquette to flirt with their waiter before the other person has even had the chance to sneak off while he’s in the bathroom, but he kind of can’t care right now. He’s now fully fucking hard under the table — and jesus, how embarrassing is that? — and he kind of feels wild, like maybe he’s ready to risk it all just to suck this man’s cock.

Eddie, meanwhile, looks like he has a sour taste in his mouth and is rolling those goddamn eyes again, saying, “That’s not even fucking funny, dude. Jesus, you talk so much, and for what if you don’t even know how to tell a joke?”

Richie digs his fingers into his thigh to ground himself in the really disproportionate wave of arousal he’s feeling right now, because again with the fucking negging. He cocks an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, have you been watching us all night then? How do you know how much I talk?”

And he feels a little bad for including Chad in his flagrant flirting with their waiter — he hates man buns and people who treat waiters shittily, but he’s still human and this is bad even for him — but he’s pretty sure Chad stopped caring about this date about 10 minutes in, so.

Deeply unfortunately, it seems that his comment has reminded Eddie that he is, in fact, a waiter, and he is _serving_ Richie ( _hngh_ ) and his _date_ (not so _hngh_ ), and he flushes even more and flicks his eyes away as he says in a dismissive and wildly hot tone, “It’s not my fault you’re the loudest goddamn guy in here. Can’t drown you out.” Eddie seems to collect himself in a quick shoulder shrug and then looks between Richie and Chad and says, “So, what are we thinking?”

Richie finally turns his attention back to Chad, who is looking a little annoyed but seems to decide not to say anything. He does make slightly prolonged eye contact with Richie, and Richie feels himself flush a little, embarrassed. But then, of course, he looks up and realizes that Eddie is looking at him again, and he looks disapproving, and jesus fucking christ.

So he motions vaguely at Chad and says, “What do you think? Overpriced nachos or overpriced fuckin’ cauliflower wings?” And Eddie’s eyes flick to Chad, which is the desired effect.

Richie is starting to worry about his level of arousal.

Chad ends up choosing the cauliflower wings, which, like, of course, and Eddie takes the order and leaves without another look in Richie’s direction. And of course, for whatever fucking reason, that makes Richie salivate.

Richie has a choice to make. The date is supremely fucked, he knows that and doesn’t care whatsoever. But he’s trying to decide whether he should hold out for a bit longer just to hate-flirt with Eddie one more time, or whether he can fuck off to the bathroom to jerk off ( _embarrassing_ , he’s not thinking about how embarrassing that is, but he definitely can’t wait till he gets home). And then, the decision is made for him, because Eddie comes back.

Eddie comes back, and he isn’t looking at Richie still. He turns to Chad and says, “Heyyy, so, bad news, we’re somehow out of cauliflower — I know, I’m just as shocked as you.”

And Richie is fairly sure that Eddie is — flirting with Chad?

“But hey, what can I get you instead? And, fuck it, let’s say on the house, because it’s honestly ridiculous that a place can run out of cauliflower,” Eddie continues, and Richie cannot help himself.

“You hitting on my date in front of me, Eds?” he says in an edgy voice, feeling a little twinge in his stomach for involving Chad again, for being a hypocrite who does hypocritical things. But he desperately wants Eddie to look at him again.

And the worst part is, Eddie doesn’t. Eddie doesn’t even look at him as he says, flatly, “My name is still Eddie, and you’re still not funny. Fuck off. How about I get you the chef’s special, just for you?” And he says the last part, in a manufactured purr, to Chad. He never looks at Richie.

And that, somehow, is it for him.

“Be right back. Bathroom,” he says quickly as he pushes away from the table. “Order whatever, since it’s on the house!”

The bathrooms are stupid, all minimalist with exposed pipes, and he would put money on the graffiti on the stall doors being an artistic choice by the owners, but really, who fucking cares. Richie is honestly disoriented with how turned on he is. He’s a healthy mid-20s man with an active libido, but the last time he was this desperately hard was when he was fucking 15. He’s almost hysterical as he locks himself in a stall, just telling himself over and over that he just needs to get a hand on himself and a stroke or two and that will help (delusional).

He’s had some to drink and it’s hot in the bar and so he feels sweat beading on his upper lip as he fumbles with his belt and fly with trembling hands, back pressed against the stall door, and then he forces himself to stop. Take a second. Because he’s horny, and flirting is fun, but it’s more than that, and he kind of feels like he’s on some sort of edge. And maybe not a good one to tip over in a bar bathroom while a shitty Tinder date and a stupidly hot waiter are between him and getting home.

He waits until he can feel his hands again, and then he lets himself go. Just a quick jerk. Just quick, and then he’ll finish off the stupid fucking date, and then he can go home and figure out what the fuck is so hot about dark eyes and compact bodies and the words “fuck off,” and why it’s got him feeling hazy, floaty, like he’s not all the way in reality.

He gets his pants undone and shoves them down with his boxers just enough to get his dick out, the top half of his ass bare against the cool metal of the stall door but not caring. He holds an embarrassingly shaky hand close to his face and spits in it, rubbing it between his fingers before he finally finally gets his hand on his cock.

It’s not even that great of a touch, with spit as lube and unable to fully control his motions, but this weird loose tension in his gut makes him almost lightheaded with relief on the first stroke. He tips his head back against the door, breathing hard, the hand not on his dick going to brace against the wall adjacent to him. He tries to measure his breathing, letting out a shaky gust of air as he strokes himself again.

This is fucking insanity, he thinks loosely as he strokes himself again, but he really really can’t seem to care the way he should. How the fuck is he getting off in a bathroom stall, alone, in a bar, over the waiter who told him to fuck off on his on a shitty date?

He raises his hand again, spits the best he can with a mouth that’s going dry from his panting and general state of Big Horny Feelings, and lets himself again picture the hard set of Eddie’s jaw as he’d refused to look at Richie and told him to fuck off.

He manages to get something like a rhythm going, his free hand white-knuckled as it moves to the top of the wall adjacent to him, practically holding him up. He’s so fucking desperate, already drooling precum that he swipes into his stroke with his thumb, and he’s thinking maybe this will be the fastest and hardest he’s gotten off in a long time and then —

And then the fucking bathroom door opens.

Richie freezes, because he’s pretty fucking gone but he’s not a heathen, and the sound of the door squeaking open and the suddenly loud burst of music and bar sounds that comes from beyond it seems to almost wake him up from this weird horny high he’s been riding. He doesn’t take his hand off his cock, but he holds still and holds his breath, feeling suddenly wildly humiliated (and he doesn’t think about how the embarrassment goes straight to his dick. _Not now, Tozier._ ).

Whoever just came in is blissfully unaware of what they’ve interrupted. It sounds like they go straight to the urinal opposite the line of stalls in the small bathroom, and then they’re peeing, and Richie is wildly annoyed that the sound of a stranger pissing feet away from where he’s got his hand on his cock isn’t doing quite enough to calm him down.

He lets out a shuddering breath as quiet as he can, and fuck, whoever the fuck is in the bathroom is peeing like a goddamn horse. It’s lasting what feels like forever. Richie has apparently already tipped over into the territory where he can’t fucking get soft even if he wanted so, and so he feels his frustration mounting as the person finally finally fucking finishes and zips up and then fucking ambles to the sink.

He lets himself have one slow, measured stroke.

The person washes their hands for like a fucking minute, the freak, and Richie lets himself move again under the cover of running water.

One, two more strokes, and then Richie fucks himself over as the hand not on his dick unthinkingly moves to his own balls. He lets out a whimper, and that’s just fucking unacceptable. He freezes.

The water is still running, and Richie shuts his eyes tight, holding his breath, praying to whatever the fuck that this person did not hear him being this fucking embarassing.

The water shuts off a few seconds later, but there’s no indication that the person heard anything, so he lets himself relax just slightly, waiting for the sound of the person leaving the bathroom.

It doesn’t come.

Richie is still holding his breath, and he’s so frustrated, and he’s bewildered. What the fuck are they doing? The water is off and there’s no other sound, and they’re still not fucking leaving the bathroom. He holds onto his cock and holds his breath, splaying his free hand against the door, feeling again that edge that he’s toeing.

And then —

And then there’s fucking three quiet footsteps as the person walks to the door of Richie’s stall and stops there.

“Waiting for me to leave so you can finish?”

Richie feels every muscle in his body contract at the voice. It’s close, just on the other side of the door, and of course it’s Eddie. Of fucking course.

He lets out a breath that trembles, and feels fucking high on terror and embarrassment and uncertainty. What the fuck is happening?

His whole body is shaking with whatever the fuck this is, and he doesn’t even consciously decide to, but his hand slowly strokes up his cock, and he breathes the quietest inhale he can, but it feels fucking loud in this bathroom, with his whole awareness so in tune to the concept of Eddie just inches away through the cold metal of the door.

“Or were you waiting for that asshole to come in here and fuck you?” Eddie says through the door, his voice fucking low and fast and ( _there’s no other word for it, he knows, he knows it’s cliche_ ) tight. “Because I hate to break it to you, but he fucking ditched the second he could, probably fucking sick of that mouth of yours.”

This situation is so far out of Richie’s control, and he can’t tell if that’s a good thing or not, but he’s pretty sure this is his last chance to wrestle it back from the brink. “Maybe he just didn’t want to have to pay $15 for fucking nachos,” he says, voice strangled, even as he says it knowing it’s weak because Eddie said he was going to give it to them _on the house_ , jesus. “Maybe he’s just —”

“Shut the fuck up.” Eddie says, low and fast and angry and so close that he must be pressed to the stall door. “Shut the fuck up. I don’t want to hear you talking about him.”

And, well, that’s it. They’re over the brink of whatever this is. Richie wants to be brave, wants to be heroic in his self-restraint, but he’s never been either of those things ever, and he can’t help but move his fist on his cock. He feels pinned down, so flamingly embarrassed by this situation but still so hard and floating on the edge of something that feels raw and sensitive and incredibly dirty. Eddie is so close, but on the other side of the door, still one last pretense between them, and it makes him feel feral.

And Eddie sounds tight and hot and kind of annoyed with him, and he mentioned Richie’s fucking _mouth_ , so the first stroke turns into another, and he can’t help it when he lets out the smallest of sounds.

“Yeah, that’s what I fucking thought.” Eddie says, and he sounds so fucking smug, and Richie fucking whimpers again.

Mask off, he guesses. Time to face the music.

He fumbles to get his dick back into his pants, shaking hands making a mess of it, thinking that the best chance of getting Eddie’s cock in his mouth is to either get him in the stall or out of the very public bathroom at his place of work. “Realistically,” he says, too turned on and loose to try to be funny, “He probably left because I wouldn’t stop eye-fucking our waiter.”

He goes to unlock the door and push it open and hopefully drop to his knees, but then there’s a loud thunk and he sees Eddie’s fingers wrap over the top of the stall door as he pushes it solidly closed against Richie’s body.

“Uh… what the fuck?” He’s almost in pain from Eddie slamming the door against him and his still-hard cock, clearly with his full body weight, and Richie would be distracted thinking about how it really would take all of Eddie to push back against Richie, but he’s also confused, because what?

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going, asshole?” Eddie sounds mad again. It’s still doing things to Richie.

“Richie, uh, is my name,” he says, uncertain. “And, uh, ideally wherever I can suck your cock?”

He hears Eddie breathe out sharply, the air hissing between his teeth. “First of all, I don’t give a fuck what your name is. You can’t use _my_ name properly, so why the fuck would you deserve to have a name?”

Richie thinks he might pass out.

“And second, you’re not fucking going anywhere. You were in here, being a dirty fucking perv and getting off thinking about me, so you’re going to finish. And I’m going to fucking listen.”

Richie is no longer in control of anything, and he fucking groans, palming himself through his partially fastened jeans, his forehead thunking against the stall door. “What the _fuck_.” He’s almost panting, and he can’t help but grip himself through his boxers, pushing with shaking hands so that his zipper goes all the way down.

“You’re fucking disgusting,” Eddie says. “Making dirty fucking gestures at me while that _asshole_ was right there. That’s fucking slutty, Richie. You were fucking gagging for it at the table with your fucking date.” Every word out of his mouth goes straight to Richie’s dick, and he actually whimpers when Eddie calls him slutty. He’s got his cock out again, his forehead still pressed to the stall door directly below where Eddie’s hand is clenched on it, stroking himself so hard it’s almost painful. He feels on fire, but loose, and all he wants is to keep Eddie talking at him, get Eddie’s hand around his throat, get Eddie in him and over him and fucking him.

“I thought —” he gasps out, managing to sound at least semi coherent. “I thought you said I didn’t deserve a name.”

He’s trying to provoke Eddie, it’s utterly transparent, but it also fucking _works_.

There’s a moment of silence in which Richie wonders if he fucked it up, snapped Eddie out of this frantic, heated moment, but then:

“So now you’re just being a fucking brat.” Eddie’s voice is suddenly calm, cold, but so tightly wound, and it makes precum spurt out of Richie’s cock. He gathers it into his stroke, slowing himself down and letting out a low, wounded noise that he knows Eddie can hear, feeling so fucking close already. But Eddie stays silent for a minute, and Richie just wants his voice back, so:

“I’m sorry,” he whimpers, and he sounds pathetic even to himself. The slick sound of his hand on his cock is loud in the bathroom, and he sounds fucking wrecked, and pathetic, and — and slutty. “I’m sorry, Eddie, I didn’t mean to be.”

“Mean to be what?”

Richie lets out another breathy sound. “A brat. I’m sorry.” He’s so close to coming, and all he wants, all he can think about with Eddie’s low voice in his ear, is Eddie holding him against the door, Eddie forcing him to his knees, Eddie fucking his mouth and Richie having nowhere to go with the door behind him, forcing him to take it, to choke on it —

“You’re not going to come yet, are you, Richie?” Eddie sounds pleased again, less cold than before, and Richie has to freeze his hand on his dick because he’s so close to spilling over. “Because that would be really fucked up of you. That would be really fucking selfish. So fucking desperate to get off just to the sound of my voice that you come before I can even tell you to.”

Richie whines and squeezes his eyes shut, his mouth hanging open and his breath wet against the door. He holds the base of his cock, desperately trying not to come. “I — No, not until you tell me. What — what do you want me to do?”

Eddie lets out a humming noise of consideration, and Richie can’t help himself as he reaches down to cup his balls again.

And that is when the fucking door to the bathroom opens again, and a third person walks in.

The stall door Richie is leaning against jerks like Eddie is pushing back from it, and Richie’s entire body tenses as he ducks and bites his shoulder, trying to muffle his breathing and the sounds he can’t stop making.

Other than the push against the door, Eddie seems to be unfazed, because he just says, seemingly to the person who just entered, “Fair warning, my boyfriend is in here and it seems like he ate something bad, so I’m talking him through it.” He chuckles a bit at the end, and the other guy just kind of awkwardly laughs and says, “Oh damn, that sucks.”

Richie, meanwhile, is losing his fucking mind.

He had gotten lost in the moment and hadn’t been feeling as sharply the humiliation of jerking off in a public restroom while being verbally egged on by his fucking waiter, but if that didn’t all come crashing back in with this new player, and if it doesn’t somehow turn him on even more. And then there’s fucking Eddie, so fucking in control all the time, sounding normal.

“I want you to keep going.” Eddie’s voice is suddenly low and close to him, not loud enough for the other guy, just enough for Richie to hear him and let out a little whine into his shoulder. “If you can’t behave yourself long enough to leave the damn restaurant then you don’t get to decide to stop now.”

Richie’s mouth drops open. His dick is fully wet, covered in precum, achingly hard and hot. He strokes as slowly as he can, trying to stave off an orgasm that feels like it’s hurtling toward him at 90 miles per hour. He’s tiptoeing a line, and he wants to fall off it very bad. But he has to wait. Wait for Eddie.

“You should have listened to me, baby,” Eddie says, louder, clearly meant for the room to hear. “I told you not to be a brat about it.”

His words are so fucking casual. He’s totally selling it, the concerned boyfriend teasing his suffering partner about eating bad sushi or some dumb shit like that. It’s making Richie want to come all over himself. Or Eddie. Either way.

“I’m sorry,” Richie gets out loud enough for the room to hear, voice choked and rasping in a way that could be interpreted as food poisoning as opposed to, you know, public masturbation.

“Aw well,” Eddie says, and there’s something amused in his voice that makes Richie hold his breath, “I guess this is punishment enough, isn’t it, sweetheart?”

Richie groans and grips the base of his cock harder, so close to coming he can taste it.

Luckily it sounds like the other guy is done, wiping his hands and saying in their general direction, sounding amused, “Good luck with that.”

“Thanks, man,” Eddie tosses out as the door swings closed, and Richie lets out another filthy moan.

“Eddie,” he chokes out. “I swear to fuck — please _please_ —”  
“Oh yeah?” Eddie’s voice is so close again, and finally, finally, he sounds a little bit affected. It sounds like his jaw is so tightly clenched the words come out a little garbled. “You did good, Richie. Played it off well. Did that get you off? Did you like — fuck.” He sounds breathless, and Richie almost wonders if he’s touching himself on the other side of the door. “Do you like to get off in the bathroom so you have to keep quiet while no one else knows?”

Richie can’t speak, his hips twitching forward to fuck into his fist despite his best intentions, sweat beading in the hollow at the bottom of his throat, an incessant whine at the back of it.

“Alright, fuck,” Eddie says, breathing hard. “In a second I want you to come, but I have — listen to me carefully when I tell you what to do.” Richie lets out a choked, “Yes, please, Eddie, fuck” that’s halfway to being a sob, and he hears Eddie’s head thunk against the door.

He can hear Eddie breathing, and it sounds like he’s trying to steady himself as he listens to the noises and little words Richie can’t help but let slip out, _fuck, please, Eddie_ , as he fucks his fist and hurtles toward the edge.

Finally, Eddie says, in a calm, coiled voice that roots itself somewhere in Richie’s lower stomach, “Richie, I want you to fucking come for me, and you can’t make a mess.”

And that really is all it takes. Richie’s hips snap forward once, twice, three times before the entire line of his body snaps tight, and he barely manages to throw his hand out to catch it before he’s coming, choking on the feeling of it, finally finally finally tipping over that edge that he’s felt in his periphery every since Eddie told him to fuck off.

He’s vaguely aware he’s saying Eddie’s name over and over, low and whiny and filthy, as his hips pulse forward once, twice as he rides it out. On the other side of the door, something thunks against the metal, maybe Eddie’s hand, and Eddie lets out a low sound that twinges inside of Richie.

They both breath hard for a bit, leaning against opposite sides of the door, and Richie, with a handful of his own come and a sweat-drenched button-up sticking to his back, thinks maybe he just had a religious experience? He’s never had one-sided, humiliating, filthy public sex, but this is setting a fairly high standard for any future occurrences. He still feels loose, like he’s floating, and like the only tether is Eddie’s voice.

Then Eddie says, “Did you — you didn’t make a mess, did you, Richie?” His voice is rough, deeper than it’s been all night. Richie, in spite of having just come, wants him.

“No, I, I caught it all,” he says, peering down to make sure it’s true, and fuck, there’s a lot. “It’s all in my hand, there’s a lot of it.”

Eddie makes a pleased noise that has Richie’s gut clenching again. He thought this would probably be it, they’d get awkward about it and move on, but there’s something in Eddie’s voice that promises more.

“Lick it off.”

Richie, who had been bracing himself against the door with his clean hand after halfheartedly tugging up his boxers and jeans, loses his grip and nearly brains himself, a strangled whimper pulled out of him as his head shoots up, as if he can see Eddie through the door.

He almost hesitates, but — fuck it. In for a penny, in for a pound. He’d do anything for Eddie right now, he’s fairly sure.

He licks a stripe across his palm, gathering up a glob of bitter-salty come. He doesn’t often taste himself — doesn’t really have any reason to, he’s not (usually) very kinky — but something about doing it for Eddie, wondering if Eddie wants to be tasting him, is making him almost pant against his fingers.

He knows Eddie can hear it as he lathes his tongue between his fingers, and he almost feels powerful for the first time this whole night, but then —

“And don’t swallow. Keep it in your mouth. I get off in 20 minutes.” Eddie pauses, laughs shortly. “Thank fucking christ your mouth is busy, I can only imagine the shitty fucking joke you’d have for that.”

Richie’s eyes are almost rolling back in his head.

He’s never been, like, a cum play person, or he didn’t think, but this seems to be working for him because — fuck, he just came like two minutes ago, but Eddie’s command goes straight to his dick, and he can feel it trying to plump. He whimpers.

“You’re going to go back out there, and you’re going to pay for your fucking nachos — on the house, my ass — and you’re not going to open your goddamn mouth until I can fuck it. Do you understand me?” Eddie’s voice is so fucking arrogant, so tight and so clearly sure that Richie will do fucking anything for him in this moment. “You’re going to keep your come in your mouth like the disgusting fucking whore that you are, and you’re gonna fucking keep quiet, and then in 20 minutes I will come get you, and I’ll tell you what I’m going to do with you.”

Richie is leaning against the stall door again, barely able to stand, and yeah, he’s at least at half mast again, jesus christ. His hand is clean and his mouth is full of cum, and then Eddie is opening the door finally finally _finally_.

Richie barely has a moment to right himself before Eddie is catching his chin, all up in his space suddenly, and Richie may be taller than him but he is not in control of the fucking situation.  
Eddie looks composed, jaw tight and eyes dark but his face is so fucking casual as he grips Richie’s face so hard it hurts and says, “Understand?”

Richie blinks down at him, completely at his whim, and just nods. Eddie meets his gaze hard for a few seconds longer, and then smirks slightly, leans up just a bit, his face next to Richie’s and one hand pressed slightly against the center of Richie’s chest, and says quietly, lightly, “You’re fucking filthy, Rich.”

Richie’s eyes flutter closed and he lets out a whimper, and then Eddie is fucking gone.

And so then Richie is standing in the middle of a public restroom with a mouthful of his cum that he can’t swallow, a hard-on that he doesn’t dare to touch, and a loose feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Fuck.

**Author's Note:**

> that's all folks
> 
> but also this is my first fic in literal years and my first fic for reddie and no beta we die like men so uhh, let me know. also lmk if u wanna beta a stranger's dirty fics bc i have no friends who wanna do it for me


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